Quite Excellent

Bob Hicok
Alzheimer's

Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand
new and nameless, their faces’ puzzles
missing pieces. She’s like a fish 

in a deep ocean, its body made of light.
She floats through rooms, through
my eyes, an old woman bereft
of chronicle, the parable of her life.

And though she’s almost a child
there’s still blood between us;
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives, 

stairs, from the street that calls
as rivers do, a summons to walk away, 
to follow. And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,

when she sometimes looks up
and says my name, the sound arriving
like the trill of a bird so rare
it’s rumored no longer to exist.
 

Vachel Lindsey
RAIN

Each storm-soaked flower has a beautiful eye.
And this is the voice of the stone-cold sky:
“Only boys keep their cheeks dry.
Only boys are afraid to cry.
Men thank God for tears,
Alone with the memory of their dead,
Alone with lost years.”
 

Richard Brautigan
IT’S RAINING IN LOVE

I don’t know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
                a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don’t say the right things
or perhaps I start
                to examine,
                                evaluate
                                                compute
                what I am saying.

If I say, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and she says, “I don’t know,”
I start thinking: Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
“It’s twenty times better to be friends
                with someone
than it is to be in love with them.”

I think he’s right and besides,
it’s raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
                That’s all taken care of.

                        BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
“Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and I say, “It beats me,”
and she says, “Oh,”
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it’s you, baby, this time
        instead of me.

What the Spider Heard
Weldon Kees

Will there be time for eggnogs and eclogues
In the place where we’re going? 
Said the spider to the fly. 

I think not, said the fly. 
I think not, sang the chorus. 
I think not, said a stranger
Who mysteriously happened by. 

Will they beat me and treat me the way they did here, 
In the place where we’re going? 
Asked the spider of the fly. 

It is likely, said the fly. 
Very likely, sang the chorus. 
Extremely likely, said the stranger, 
With an eager gleam in his eye. 

O, why go there when we know there is nothing there but fear
At this place where we’re going? 
Said the spider to the fly. 

What a question! said the fly. 
What a question! sang the chorus. 
What a question! said the stranger, 
Leering slightly at the spider, 
Winking slyly at the fly. 
 

The Infinite
By Charles Simic

The infinite yawns and keeps yawning.
Is it sleepy?
Does it miss Pythagoras?
The sails on Columbus’s three ships?
Does the sound of the surf remind it of itself?
Does it ever sit over a glass of wine
     and philosophize?
Does it peek into mirrors at night?
Does it have a suitcase full of souvenirs
     stashed away somewhere?
Does it like to lie in a hammock with the wind
     whispering sweet nothings in its ear?
Does it enter empty churches and light a single
     candle on the altar?
Does it see us as a couple of fireflies
     playing hide-and-seek in a graveyard?
Does it find us good to eat?

My lemon-colored
whisper-weight blouse
with keyhole closure
and sweetheart neckline is tucked
into a pastel silhouette skirt
with side-slit vents
and triplicate pleats
when I realize in the sunlight
through the windshield
that the cool yellow of this blouse clashes
with the buttermilk heather in my skirt
which makes me slightly queasy
however

the periwinkle in the pattern on the sash
is sufficiently echoed by the twill uppers
of my buckle-snug sandals
while the accents on my purse
pick up the pink
in the button stitches

and then as we pass
through Weapons Check
it's reassuring to note
how the yellows momentarily mesh
and make an overall pleasing
composite

Summer Wind
By William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven–
Their bases on the mountains–their white tops
Shining in the far ether–fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays his coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

Introduction to Poetry
BY BILLY COLLINS

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide 

or press an ear against its hive. 

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out, 

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch. 

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore. 

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it. 

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.